


Doctor Watson Gave Battle in Vain

by idontblogforsherlockholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Goodbyes, John Commits Suicide, POV John Watson, Rain, Rainbows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:21:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1330024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idontblogforsherlockholmes/pseuds/idontblogforsherlockholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is alone, he is tired. He can't take the grief anymore. He decides to end it all, but saying goodbye isn't as hard as he thought it would be, and he welcomes the rain and the adrenaline. </p>
<p>Falling is like flying, only there's a more permanent destination...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor Watson Gave Battle in Vain

I watched, screaming out his name. He fell too fast. He fell fast but extremely slow all at the same time. His arms flailed like he was trying so hard to fly, but just couldn't. I reached out, trying to feel his billowing coat from so far away. A tear splashed against my lip, my mouth open in disbelief. I watched as the sickening crack echoed around my head for what seemed like hours. My breath came out as a whimper, a cry of grief filling my body from head to toe with a cold ache. My eyes blurred, my life torn.

I reach out again. This is where it happened. I look down, the world carrying on as normal as if nothing mattered. Little tiny ants were the people, moving slowly and scattering around. I look straight up, into the sky. The rain falls onto my face, into my eyes, down my back. Puny humans, caring about everything. Why do we care so much? Civil wars are raging and murderers ruin lives every day. Everywhere, people die, yet still we care about our lives as though it is a video game.

My jumper is now sticking to my back. It feels nice. I look straight ahead, the grey, sullen buildings against the horizon just standing there. They don’t say anything. Nobody says anything anymore. Mrs Hudson stares at the ground, tears catching in her eyes at the smell of Sherlock's scarf against my own body. I never take it off. Lestrade keeps his eyes to the ground too, ashamed and sickened. Molly rushes about, the longest sentence she dares utter all day is, "John. Tea." But even tea cannot soothe the dull throb of anxiety and grief that floods through me every second of my ever tiring life. 

As I leave the doctor's surgery for the last time. I close my door confidently. I say my farewells to the room and walk out. People look at me with confusion as I deposit my files and keys at reception, but I don’t say a word as my colleagues question me. I walk out, and I call a cab to where Lestrade is on a case. I walk to him, look him in the eye, and say “never forget it.” Lestrade’s mouth drops open as I turn away. I remember that at the flat lies a bouquet of flowers for Mrs Hudson, a card attached.   
I now walk to the only place I know I'll be welcomed. I sit by Sherlock's grave and tell him why I won't be visiting again. I see something stir behind a tree near me and I jump, imagining a long coat and a scrutinising gaze, but turning my head I realise I am seeing things. I turn back to the headstone. I cry. I shout. I punch his headstone. I cry. But finally, I lie down a single poppy. 

Stood on the roof of Saint Bart's, I look down once more. People are still getting on with their lives. Then there's me. I catch a glimpse of a tall figure in a long coat running to the side of the hospital. A tear falls from my eye as I flinch, my brain thinking it was him. All my years in the army and sentiment grabs me round the throat once more. I blink, then open my eyes to watch the salty water fall and fall and fall and hit the ground, out of sight. A woman looks up to the roof and screams, pointing. A huge crowd forms and I sigh, a tiredness creeping over me that was sickly sweet.  
I turn to look behind me, my heels against the edge of the roof. I can hear more screams and shouts below and then finally: sirens. It doesn't matter. Nothing can stop me now. I close my eyes. I can hear footsteps smashing one by one up the metal stairs. I lean back, and open my eyes.   
"JOHN!"   
I watch Sherlock's face and smile; I get to die, and I get to see his face before I do. Perfect. Hallucinations were not always a bad thing.   
I fall.   
Falling's like flying, only there's a more permanent destination.   
I feel the wind catching in my back and the sounds of screaming and shouting get drowned out by the sound of the wind. I open my eyes to see a rainbow, the sun shining through the rain.   
The colours, I count them, reciting.

Red, like the danger Sherlock threw at us. 

After Sherlock rushed to the end of the roof, he knelt down to clutch at the warm stone.

Orange, like the warm fire in the evenings at 221B. 

John wove his fingers around the fabric of the billowing scarf.

Yellow, like the police crime scene tape Sherlock so violently disobeyed. 

The public below cried out in horror, moving away and covering their children’s eyes. 

Green, like the medic bags he used every day. 

Mrs Hudson opened the letter. 

Blue, like the sky on a beautiful day.

Lestrade swore in realisation and jumped in his car. 

Indigo, like the chemicals Sherlock used for his experiments.

John’s heart raced. 

Violet, like his scarf.

John clutched onto it, inhaling the smell of Sherlock, staring into the rainbow and rain. Then he closed his eyes for the very last time, as Sherlock Holmes reached out his arm from the rooftop, shouting the Doctor’s name. His eyes blurred and as the sickening crack echoed through the air, Sherlock let a tear of anguish and fury fall from his eye.   
It fell and fell and fell before splashing to the ground, whilst in the distance a bird began to sing.


End file.
